The Panic Zone

5

An eerie quiet enveloped the air around the cafe.

Rio’s Centro traffic had been diverted around the blast area or, what one newspaper called “A Zona da Matanca.”

“It means the Zone of the Slaughter,” Luiz translated for Gannon as they left their taxi and walked to the inner perimeter.

Knots of police vehicles, their emergency lights flashing, secured the street. Farther along, where the satellite trucks and news crews had parked, it was cordoned by barricades and tape, and several dozen people were rubbernecking the investigation.

Beyond the police lines, Gannon saw the office buildings and shops smashed by the blast. The awning of a boutique drooped above its shattered windows. Mangled chairs, tables and debris littered the street. The sign above the cafe had split, both pieces swaying now in the breeze, signifying the wound in the aftermath of the attack.

Stick to the basics, keep your notebook out of sight and observe. Gannon knew how to work a scene.

As they drew near, he indicated to Luiz that they should go to the far end of the barricade away from the other news people.

From there, they saw the technicians in their white coveralls, yellow shoe covers and latex gloves picking through wreckage on the patio and sidewalk, collecting evidence. Others photographed the devastation, took measurements and made notes. A police dog, its snout to the ground, sniffed for trace material, while a soft wind carried flakes of ash and papers down the avenue and alleys.

“Nao aqui! Voce deve mover-se!” An unsmiling uniformed officer appeared before them.

“He wants us to move, to join the other reporters,” Luiz said.

“Tell him I’m a reporter with the World Press Alliance from New York and that two of my colleagues were killed here. Gabriela Rosa and Marcelo Verde. Tell him I need to speak to the lead investigator, possibly, to share information. Stress possibly.”

As Luiz translated, Gannon held up his WPA identification. After listening and looking at it, the cop spoke into his radio.

A moment passed and a response crackled back.

Gannon saw another uniformed officer amid the scene talk into his radio, then to the two men in polo shirts and jeans beside him. One of them looked from his notebook to Gannon, then waved him through. Gannon had figured the plain-clothed men for detectives. The first one held out his latex-gloved hand before him and spoke in English.

“Give me your passport, please.”

The man reviewed it and wrote down Gannon’s passport number while his partner took Gannon’s picture with a small camera.

“Am I to understand that you have information on this crime, Mr. Jack Gannon?”

Gannon glimpsed the cop’s ID on the chain around his neck and the words Policia and Roberto something Investigador. His face was somber as if the weight of the world were pressing on him. A tiny scar meandered down his left cheek as his hooded brown eyes measured Gannon.

“I would like to discuss things first,” Gannon said.

“No discussion, if you have information relating to this crime, you must tell me.” The detective angled Gannon’s passport so his heavyset, pock-faced partner could read Gannon’s passport number. Then he spoke in rapid Portuguese and his partner nodded and made a phone call. “If you interfere with our investigation we can revoke your visa and send you back to New York.”

“What?”

“Or we can arrest you.”

“Hold on a second.”

“Do you have information relating to this crime?”

Gannon heard the partner say “Jack Gannon” into his phone and grew uneasy. This was not like a crime scene in Buffalo. What had he stepped into? Sweat rolled down his back. His mind blurred with the reports he’d read on the plane of how elements of the Brazilian police were feared for alleged corruption, brutality and, according to human-rights groups, executing criminal suspects.

A New York detective might have offered a few words of condolence for the loss of Gannon’s colleagues. Not this Roberto guy, who was tapping Gannon’s passport in his palm.

“Your response?”

Gannon studied the man’s ID. “You’re Roberto Estralla?”

“Yes.”

“The lead detective?”

Estralla nodded.

“May I have my passport back?”

“You have failed to answer my question.”

After quick consideration, Gannon said, “Would you exchange information confidentially?”

Estralla stopped tapping Gannon’s passport. “Are you attempting to bribe me? Because that is a crime.”

“No.”

“Tell me what information you have, before I exercise my authority.”

“I believe Gabriela and Marcelo were supposed to meet a source here.”

“And what is the name of this source?”

“I don’t know.”

“What sort of business did they have with this source?”

“I don’t know.”

Estralla spoke to his partner in Portuguese then continued, “Where did you learn of this information about the meeting?”

“We heard it at WPA headquarters in New York before I was dispatched to Rio de Janeiro.”

Estralla studied Gannon’s face for an icy moment.

“In which hotel are you staying?”

“Nine Palms.”

Estralla nodded to Gannon’s cell phone.

“Your telephone number?”

Gannon recited it and the moment Estralla finished noting it, Estralla’s cell phone rang. He returned Gannon’s passport. “You may go,” he said, hailing a uniformed officer before taking his call.

“Wait,” Gannon said, “I have some questions.” Estralla waved Gannon away to take his call but Gannon persisted. “Do you have any suspects or leads? What about a motive, or the type of bomb?”

Estralla and his partner walked away. A uniformed officer took Gannon’s arm and escorted him to the police line where he was suddenly awash in bright lights from the news cameras.

“Jack Gannon,” an attractive woman wearing flawless makeup, a tailored suit and a sense of urgency beckoned him. She gripped a microphone. A man with a TV camera on his shoulder stood behind her. “You are with the WPA?” the woman asked.

The police officer nodded and nearly two dozen journalists and photographers crowded around Gannon.

“I am Yasmin Carval from Globo.” The rings on her fingers glinted as she extended her mike to Gannon. “Did the police tell you who is responsible?”

“No, I’m sure you know more than me.”

“Two of your WPA press friends were killed. Can you say something to us about that?”

The lights from the five or six TV cameras around him were intense. Gannon glimpsed Luiz at the fringe of the pack and caught a hint of Yasmin Carval’s strong perfume as she stepped closer.

“Mr. Gannon, what has been the impact?” Yasmin Carval asked.

“The loss has taken a toll on our entire agency.”

“Do you think Gabriela and Marcelo were targets?”

“Targets?”

“Was Gabriela working on a story about drug gangs?”

“I don’t know.”

“There is speculation that narco gangs are behind the bombing.”

“I don’t know anything. I can’t say more, I have to go.”

Gannon shouldered his way through the pack and when he reached Luiz, they started walking toward the bureau. It was a few blocks away.

“What the hell was that?” Gannon said. “How did they know my name and everything else?”

“When they spotted you inside the line, they thought you were getting preferential treatment and complained to the other officers, who told them you were with WPA.”

“Preferential treatment?” Gannon shook his head, glanced over his shoulder, relieved no one was following them. “I didn’t get any stinking preferential treatment from that detective.”

“Roberto Estralla.”

“That’s right.”

“He’s one of Rio’s most respected investigators but he detests reporters. Those at the barricade were impressed he allowed you to cross the police line and talk to him.”

Different town, different rules, Gannon thought, taking a parting glance back at the scene. There was something there.

Something he was overlooking.